Like a Beacon in the Red of night
by BookOfXcentric
Summary: Shameless anal. 18 Sort of sequel to my other fic 'Will of the Spark to down the Moon'. Stiles is Scott's bitch, Post 3B, PWP, Knotting, Mild Daddy kink, light dom/sub, dom Scott, sub Stiles, Dirty talk. Damn it, Brain.


**A/N:** I can't begin to tell you how I battled with this fic. I wrote it, deleted it and re-wrote it like four times because I don't really do sex fics well. I wasn't able to finish it before I got sick so it had to be archived. Since I'm in recovery now I figured I'd finish it up before Christmas and post it even if I'm not content with the product… it's only a fraction of the original…The end result is sort of a patchwork of new ideas along with some stuff from the original because I loved those snippets so much I just had to have them there.

 **Quote of the fic:  
** "Creatures, beings and beasts, half-breeds, shape-shifters and various allied freaks; don't talk about the moonshine because there's a fine line for your sick, twisted and strange kind."

-Misc

OXXXO

Stiles is beautiful. Open and so gorgeously erotic as he's trembling on Scott's cock. Every time Scott fucks into him it wrings a needy noise punched from his lungs; a steady rhythm of hot, stuttering pants knocked out of him to the beat of the thrusts. His fingers, the lazy nervous digits, dig into the wall-paper, rakes at it in desperate search for something to latch on to. He's not allowed to turn around, not allowed to take his hands off that wall until Scott says so.

Scott finds it thrilling to know he has this effect, this ability to subdue the scheming diabolical imp –in a cute kinda way- that is Stiles. He's gotten better at reading him. Before Stiles always had one up on him and whilst it's true that he'll never match Stiles' intellectual capacities -that exceedingly acute sense of perception, the way he sees patterns where others see chaos and the way his mind takes leaps which would give a were-flea on the surface of the moon a run for the championship title –honestly, in that regard, Stiles is so far out of Scott's league they're not even playing the same game- he now has something on Stiles, something that is emotionally tactile and physical in the most compelling way.

It moulds Stiles in his touches, forms and fashions him to Scott's scorching hands. He covers one of those twitching hands with own, intertwines their fingers so Stiles' has no choice but to stop playing the wallpaper. He can feel how the muscles in Stiles vibrate. A combination of exertion from holding himself up in this position without collapsing to the floor and the force with which he's being thoroughly fucked right now.

Stiles is hot, slick and tight around him. His usually pale ass -coloured flaming red from the slapping of skin against skin- sucks Scott right in to the inviting warmth. The way Stiles' body opens and responds to his cock makes him feel welcomed, satisfied and desired.

Neither of them blush anymore. They've grown past that; grown up too fast in a town that doesn't forgive even the slightest mistake. The slightest hiccup in vigilance could mean the end. They're no longer kids but they're not adults either, they're trapped inbetween with too much knowledge and not enough experience. They're more dangerous than ever. That's why they no longer blush: because they know too much.

Scott's eyes seep to crimson and if Stiles hadn't been facing the wall, holding himself up under the cage of Scott's arms, he would be cracking a joke like "Your Alpha is showing" or something like that in an attempt to rile Scott up because it's just so easy for Stiles to do that. But he is too busy with the rough drag of Scott's cock driving into his ass from behind pushing him towards the edge of ecstasy but not quite knocking him off to have words over to string together a coherent sentence with.

Stiles is bleeding arousal; a fat, salty, sweet and rich musk oozing off his skin, sliding down his body in the form of glistering beads of sweat Scott wants to lick up. He slips his hands away from wall and traces hot sweaty palms up along Stiles' arms, under the curve of the shoulders, around the chest. Nails raking the sensitive skin with a prick of blunt claws barely forming –because it's so much harder to rein in and too much of thrill to see Stiles come undone for his Alpha like this-. When his claws scrape over the bumps that are Stiles' perked nipples he pinches the stiff buds between the pads of his thumbs and index fingers and tweaks them Hard as he realigns the angle of his thrusts and the blunt head of his cock hits Stiles right in that spot that sends a massive bolt of ecstasy up his spine to explode before his eyes.

The force sends Stiles stumbling forward and his weight becomes easier to support as he falls off his aching palms and onto his elbows now placed flat 90 degrees against the wall. This crashing shift in position makes his body bend in a rather awkward way that seems to create the perfect angle for Scott to continue hitting that electrifying spot inside him and Stiles lets out a loud string of babbling profanities he's going to feel embarrassed about later.

Noises not quite words. Words not quite sentences and he'd definitely lose his AP English A+ if the teacher could hear him right now.

Scott caresses further down over Stiles' chest, trails down the abdomen with little tapping touching of his fingers that radiate dots of heat 'til he can wrap his hands around the curves of Stiles' hips and Stiles finds himself rutting back, meeting Scott's thrusts with as much as he's capable of giving for the purpose of getting more. More of this deep connection between their bodies that strike up something primal in the both of them; increases the primitive instincts installed by that supernatural bond no language has enough words to sufficiently explain: the bond of Pack.

He's hard and leaking –there's a little puddle of precum on the floor and Stiles makes a mental note to clean that up later because Mrs. McCall has that scary ability to put two and two together only parents of teenagers possess- but Scott hasn't touched him yet. A part of him wonders if Scott is fucking obedience training him because this feels sort of rearing (Haha, rearing) –the way Scott had ordered him to strip, to turn around and face wall, palms flat against the cool surface and told him not to move. Worked him open with searingly hot touches and kisses sucked into his skin, nips and bites that would colour and stain him like a roadmap marking out Scott's territory and long fingers in his ass, stretching his hole with a mixture of pleasure and pain to make sure he's prepared for the rough shove of Scott's cock as he enters him, fills him up in one swift move that sends Stiles wailing. Scott's fingers were nothing like his cock. It's hard and big and pulsating with a heat that sooths the pain.-

Scott has been different ever since they came back from Mexico Stiles can see it in the tension that refuses to relinquish its hold over Scott, it's evident in his drawn shoulders and the muscles that constricts and then flexes but never relaxes. It's hyper vigilance wound tighter than a compound bow. Stiles himself trembles every time he thinks about Mexico. It's not visible on the outside but Stiles feels it like a quiet jolt speeding through his nervous system. He's not unfamiliar with those tremors –frankly he knows them all too well- they are the minute omens of the panic which frequently runs his system. Stiles deals by ignoring them because he hates it when the panic starts boiling. It's not healthy but Stiles has a tendency to walk the road offering least resistance. It's physics applied to psychology.

In addition, he's pretty sure he's going to be coughing ancient Aztec temple dust for the next month and a half.

There's a conversation starter: "Hey, what's up with the dust coming from your lungs?"

"Oh nothing special, I'm just channelling the powdered remains of a piece of national heritage."

Yeah, like that conversation is ever going to happen. No one outside their little clique really talks to Scott, Stiles and Lydia anymore. They are the town anointed whack jobs. There's even a filthy little rumour going around that they killed Allison.

Stiles has heard all the rumours or at least enough of them to know some people go so far as to claim that he, Scott and Lydia were responsible for the human sacrifices as well. They were the Darach. Which, if you look at it from one angle actually could have been; Stiles could have off'd Heather and Tara. The guy by the pool and the Music teacher were up for Lydia's grab. Scott could easily have taken out Emily and Kyle while Mr. Harris, the doctors and the other teachers were a joined effort. Because somehow it always came back to them. Rumours are funny like that, like an eerie game of telephone, they're easy to make when you have the power to extrapolate facts out of mixture of thin air and ignorant speculations. 40 minutes of intense googling doesn't make you an expert in anything other than qwerty. But people think Wikipedia gets them halfway to a Nobel prize; they read one article, one meme, and suddenly they think they know everything and more about OCD, Tourettes, Asperger's, ADHD, MS, Cancer, Body dysmorphia, Borderline, Psychopathy, Depression, Eating disorders, Christianity, Islam, art, evolutionary biology, the hypothalamus etc, etc, etc…

 _You. Don't. Know. Shit._

There's another tale of scuttlebutt driving around town in a sparkling turquoise Lamborghini; this one says the deadpool was a game they had constructed and played like other kids play Spin the Bottle. If you ask around people will whisper about Scott, Stiles and Lydia like they are something wrung and shaken straight out of American Horror Story's beach towel.

It is in fact laughable but Stiles is not going to lie, he's not all that surprised by the gossip mill. That doesn't mean he doesn't find it hurtful to hear the titter-tatter and see the meaningful looks thrown in their direction and the circles people walk around them. It means he can see where it's all coming from. To the population of Beacon Hills it really must seen like they've taken the crazy train out of Wacko –and it's not a freight train either it's a freaking maglev- hightailed past Insane and are now currently on a mutually assured destruction course with Psycho.

Damn it, brain.

His mind has been straying and how that's possible with a huge cock plowing in his ass bids a few questions but it earns him a reproaching prick in the neck. It's predatory like a hawk when Scott swoops in to nip the skin with sharp tipped teeth to make Stiles wince and pay attention to the dance of pleasure of and pain –a magnificent performance-. Scott is leading and Stiles is not sure if that makes him the girl in all this or not. Well, he is the one with a cock in his ass.

Scott runs his tongue over the little pink dints that perfectly match his teeth and closes his mouth over them, sucking up a fat hickey Stiles won't be able to hide without the aid of some serious makeup skills –thankfully they both have Lydia on speed dial-. Pride swells in his chest at that thought of Stiles walking around donning his mark. He grips tighter around the narrow hips perfectly fashioned to fit in his hands. He knows Stiles will bruise –two large hand shaped bruises curling around his hipbones for days like shadows echoing as a strong reminder- and rams his cock in with an almost brutal thrust.

Stiles' mouth drop open, a little drip of watery spit slipping off his bottom lip because the gasp is so thick it clogs in his throat as he takes the surprising size all the way… and then Scott has the audacity to punctuate the move with a delicious rolling snap of his hips that strikes a whole new arsenal of noises out of Stiles.

Scott is huge. Becoming an Alpha had definitely changed things, or maybe whatever was going on with his cock had been happening since the day he was bitten. Either way he's much bigger than Stiles had imagined back in the days –*cough* freshman year *cough*- when his curiosity had him checking out flaccid dick sizes in the locker room and speculating on how they'd look erect. He knows Scott's cock has gotten a power boost, he's bigger flaccid these days than he was before, but he's not sure how big Scott is erect because –since Scott had ordered him to face the wall- he hasn't had a chance to see the cock currently ramming into his ass. He's feeling it, though.

All of it.

The impossible stretch of his body around Scott sends spikes of arousal speeding along the high-way of his jumping pulse. Makes his nerves tingle… he's trembling like his bones are jello and the sound he makes is a hair's width between a whine and a wail.

"That's it, Stiles. Wanna hear you scream, you're so perfect for me. Gonna breed you full of my puppies like a good bitch." Scott coos in his ear, voice husky and blown out.

The dirty talk is proving more of a turn on than Stiles had thought it'd be. He's quite surprised Scott 'doesn't-even-J-walk' McCall has it in him. Though, Stiles knows it is true that you tend to find the most lurid minds hiding behind the most put together exteriors –don't look in the Wall Street magnates closet unless you have enough to fund the extra hours of therapy (Fifty Shades of Grey is a stupid movie but it got one thing right…)-.

Scott's too perfect to not be sick and twisted. He's always had a dominant streak –he gets it from his dad- whilst Stiles –contrary to the popular belief of just about anyone who's known them throughout their childhood- has always been the more submissive type. Stiles will do just about anything for Scott which makes it so much easier for Scott to manipulate him. It holds true that Stiles is the one who comes up 110% of their dumb stunts but no one has ever bothered to ask "Why". Everyone simply assumes it is all in Stiles' nature, and in a sense it is but it is also Scott playing his nature. All Scott ever had to do was pop the words "I'm bored. Nothing exciting ever happens in this town." and Stiles' mind would set on fire trying to come up with a way to entertain Scott. Because Stiles was the resourceful one and it's his job to take care of his friend and make sure Scott's enjoying life. If Scott's bored Stiles has failed as a friend. Friendship is an exchange of provided entertainment, at least that's what Stiles likes thinks.

It was funny how it had shifted from naughty innocent childish games into something far more primal….

And then Stiles is cumming, Scott's name tearing from his lips along with the various shouts of "Yes. Daddy, yes!"

Or something like that. He's not quite sure what he screams.

Scott buries his cock deep in Stiles' clenching ass with a final thrust and drapes himself over him as he comes, thick spurts of sticky cum coating Stiles' insides and Stiles writhers on his cock, panting and squirming like a blissed out bitch getting breed on her first heat, taking all the Alpha has to give.

Stiles tips his head back exposing the long column of his neck and arches closer to Scott's chest, pressing his ass back because Good God he can feel Scott come inside him and he wants more. He tries to wring the last drops of cum out of Scott with a desperate rutting –more like vibrating (Twerk it, Stiles!)- of his ass. The shameless wanton move is obviously working as Scott begins to swell at the base.

The knot pops before either of them has a chance to notice.

And suddenly Scott's yanking him away from the wall and they both crash to the floor in a flurry of sweat and limbs. Stiles lands on his hands and knees, face smashed against the carpet and ass in the air. He shifts and wriggles for a more comfortable position but Scott increases the pressure on his neck, pinning him down "Stay there!" He growls with a flash of red and fangs and claws, wolfed out and unbridled "You wanted this, you're taking it all."

Stiles knows he's getting louder –his throat is starting to ache- and the knot is plugging up a part of him that is far too sore and sensitive to deal with it right now. And seriously, a knot!? A fucking knot! His brain is too blown out to come up with a creatively blabbering way to describe it but it's huge and swelling, ripping at his rim with pain and no pleasure. Nevertheless, he wants it so he sinks his teeth into the flesh on his wrist and forces himself to relax through this completely different onslaught.

The carpet scrapes against his cheek and Stiles is pretty sure he's going to have a nicely sized carpet burn to show off tomorrow, along with the patchwork of hickeys.

Scott thinks Stiles is even more beautiful like this –fucked out on the floor, sated limbs quivering, tears staining fluttering eyelashes- and the wolf feels like the strongest predator around has won the ultimate prize: the right to breed.

He slings an arm around Stiles' midsection to hold his ass up and keep him from getting away as he with a final thrust pushes the entirety of his knot in place and then stills. He's cumming again, like he's never come before. It's like his balls have found a hidden reserve of semen and are now emptying it all in the warm, slick, impossibly tight ass before him. Scott throws his head back and howls, he actually freaking howls because this is a totally new current, it doesn't just knock him over the edge it throws him several yards.

Stiles is aware he's making noises -like some thoroughly fucked cockslut pretending to be a bitch in heat- that would leave a pornstar blushing because he can feel the pulsating splashes of hot cum once again filling him up.

42 minutes later the knot gives and they collapse on the floor next to each other; chests still heaving. Stains of cum slowly drying up against their skin like flakes of thin crispy rice paper and covered in glistering sheen of shared sweat that now cools their hot heads down.

"I am going to kill you." Stiles wheezes through gritted teeth and it would sound threatening if it wasn't so breathless and coming from someone who's laying buck naked on the floor with cum oozing out of his ass like a very sluggish flow of lava (Stiles' ass cum volcano. Maybe they could present that for the Science fair?). "You never told me you had a knot!"

"I didn't know I had one." Scott defends himself in the most pathetic manner; a meaningless explanation –they fall in the same category as white lies, they make you feel better but solve nothing- and airily wisps a sated sweaty arm in the air before letting it fall heavily down right next to Stiles' head. "…Let's just hope no one finds us like this."

"You mean 'Let's hope the neighbours didn't call the police'" Stiles speaks in that tone that is sardonic and flat and taunting all at once. "You know what, screw it, I don't have to kill you my dad will take care of it for me. He has a licence to carry concealed."

"I can heal."

The look Stiles gives him is long and speculative "You know how I during my Post-possession recovery process spent a lot of time at the station because dad refused to let me be home alone?"

Scott nods slowly, stubble scraping against the carpet. He's afraid of where this is going and when Stiles sends him that grin; sharp like a razor wrapped in silk he knows it's gonna be terrifying.

"One day while he was out on a domestic and Parrish was supposed to watch me I snuck down to the storage and infused most of the bullets with various concoctions of wolf's bane and mountain ash. I even put mistletoe in some of the shotgun shells but those are experimental."

Scott gulps because his best friend is slinky, adorably diabolical and oh so dangerous "But… but, your dad likes me!" he pleads.

"Not as much as he loves me."

True.

Scott has never been so worried to hear a police siren in his life. He's not going to sleep tonight…

 **THE END**

 **A/N:** Merry Christmas everyone :)


End file.
